


The Pounding of a Midnight Heart

by DoubleNegative



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Blow Jobs, First Time, Hand Jobs, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Episode: s01e03 The Great Game, Post-Season/Series 01, post-pool
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-20
Updated: 2014-07-20
Packaged: 2018-02-09 15:12:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1987590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoubleNegative/pseuds/DoubleNegative
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the pool, nothing feels real--until Sherlock crawls into his bed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Pounding of a Midnight Heart

After the phone call, after the laser sights, after the vest-- after the trembling hands and the shaking attempts at humor-- after the sirens, after the police, after the debriefings-- after Mycroft and after the black town car--

\--after it all, they returned to Baker Street.

John moved through the flat with a strange sense of disconnect. After the surrealism of the previous few hours, the familiar sights and smells felt unreal, as though he’d slipped sideways into an alternate universe for a moment and returned to find everything he’d known before slightly shifted.

He headed for the kitchen, and the cupboard that held the good whiskey, still moving on instinct, navigating by muscle memory. He didn’t say a word, just poured them each two generous measures and sank onto the couch. Sherlock dropped down beside him--closer than was his wont, on the rare occasions he deigned to share the sofa--and drained his whiskey in several long gulps. John swirled the whiskey in his own tumbler, suddenly not sure he could drink it without retching, and absently watched the rhythmic movement of Sherlock’s throat as he swallowed.

The smell of chlorine still burned in his nostrils, and suddenly he could not sit quietly on the couch any longer. He set his glass down on the table, harder than he’d meant to, and pushed to his feet. “I can’t-- I’ve got to shower,” he said. “I’m shattered and I feel disgusting.”

Sherlock didn’t look up, just exchanged his empty glass for John’s full one and settled back around the couch with both hands wrapped around it. His knuckles stood out ghost-white against his already pale skin.

“Right,” John said, making for the bathroom. “Right. I’ll-- I’ll see you in the morning, then.”

He flipped on the water, as hot as he could stand it, and struggled out of his clothes with shaking fingers. He could still feel the weight of the Semtex vest on his shoulders, the trickling sweat under his arms and down his back--from the vest, from the heavy down coat, from the numbing, choking, ungodly _fear_ of it all. He thought he might bin the day’s clothes.

When he finally managed the damn buttons, the laces on his shoes, the zipper on his trousers, and stepped under the spray, he soaped himself up again and again. He all but rubbed himself raw with the flannel and turned the water up until his skin was red and stinging and the bathroom filled with steam.

It wasn’t enough. He still smelled the chlorine beneath the soap, and still felt every place Moriarty’s hands had touched, burning like a brand. Finally, the water turned cold and he shut it off, and stood dripping and shivering for a moment before reaching for his towel.

In the living room, the violin wailed into the silence, ricocheted up and down the scales for a few raucous seconds, and then broke off abruptly. In the quiet that followed, John heard Sherlock’s inarticulate noise of disgust, a few heavy footfalls down the hall, and the slam of Sherlock’s bedroom door.

Well.

John plodded up the stairs, dragging his feet at every step. All he wanted was to crawl into bed and let sleep wash over him, and wake up in the morning with the entire horrible evening erased.

He should have known that wouldn’t happen. He plumped his pillow, pulled the duvet up around his chin… and waited. And waited. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, it became harder and harder not to see the shifting patterns of light on water reflected onto the ceiling. Despite the twenty-minute shower and all his scrubbing, the scent of chlorine still burned his nostrils. Moriarty’s fingerprints still itched and stung where he’d touched John.

God, the night was going to be interminable. Perhaps he should have drunk that whiskey after all. It might have quieted his racing mind, at any rate. Instead, he tossed and turned, unable to get comfortable, unable to forget Moriarty’s mocking, off-kilter lilt, the weight of the bomb vest, the red dots of half a dozen laser sights dancing over Sherlock’s face and chest.

God, that sight. John felt sick again, watching it play over and over again behind closed lids.

And then he heard feet on the steps. For one wild moment John thought it was Moriarty, creeping up their staircase, coming to burn their hearts out after all. But no: although these footsteps were soft and hesitant, they were not terribly stealthy. Sherlock, then, but doing… what? He paused just outside John’s door for several long minutes, and then John heard a soft sigh and the sound of the knob turning.

Sherlock slipped inside without a word, coming to perch at the very edge of John’s bed, near the footboard.

“All right, Sherlock?” John asked after a moment.

“I can’t sleep either.” Another long pause, and John felt Sherlock shift slightly. “I shouldn’t even _want_ to sleep; there’s work to be done. I need to know who called him, and what they said. That will tell us why--” He cut himself off abruptly and took a shaky breath. “But I don’t--I can’t stop seeing it. The water and the tile and those _red dots_ and--”

“C’mere,” John said, before he could think better of it. He scooted over in the bed, closer to the wall, and pulled aside the duvet. “Lay down. It’ll help.” Sherlock hesitated only a moment before he acquiesced. The mattress shifted and dipped as he crawled in beside John and settled down, flat on his back and stiff as a board. And still fully dressed, right down to the jacket and shoes.

“For Christ’s sake, Sherlock, at least take off your shoes. Might want to lose the jacket, too, but at least that won’t leave dirt on my sheets.” For a moment, a familiar wave of exasperated fondness replaced the knot of worry that had settled low in his stomach. The night had been unnerving enough on its own, but seeing how much it had rattled Sherlock made it exponentially worse.

Sherlock grumbled something incoherent and defensive-sounding, but after a bit of squirming, John heard the twin thuds of his shoes hitting the floor, followed by a softer muffled sound that had to be his jacket.

“Better, yeah?” John asked, as Sherlock settled back down on his side, closer than before, and facing him.

Another wordless noise from Sherlock, vaguely affirmative this time, followed by another burst of restless movement from his side of the bed. On impulse, John reached out a hand and laid it on Sherlock’s shoulder, just to try to settle him a bit. His skin was hot beneath John’s hand, warm and real in a way that nothing had been all evening. He curled his fingers a little tighter, feeling the faint tremors that ran through Sherlock’s muscles, feeling the world settle more closely about him. And perhaps Sherlock had been feeling the same way, because he seemed to lean into the touch, relaxing fractionally, moving infinitesimally close. And then Sherlock tensed abruptly.

“You can’t _do_ that, John,” he burst out, unnaturally loud in the silence. John snatched his hand back, cheeks burning. He hadn’t-- he’d thought-- well, it hardly mattered now.

“Sorry,” he said, voice thick with embarrassment.

“No, not _that_ ,” Sherlock said impatiently. “The touching is fine. I-- it’s good.”

Oh.

“But earlier, at the pool, what you did, I said--I said it was good, but it _wasn’t good_. You can’t _do_ that, you can’t just-- You _can’t_.” John could feel Sherlock growing increasingly tense as the words tumbled out, in stark contrast to his usual precision, and he reached out his hand again.

“I did, though,” John said, squeezing Sherlock’s shoulder. “I would again.” Sherlock had to understand that. He had to know.

“ _No_ ,” Sherlock said, desperate. He pushed himself half-upright, looming over John, and in the dim light of the room John could just make out the anguish on his features. “You don’t understand. Before you, I was-- I worked alone. And I was fine, I thought I was fine, but it was-- I can’t do that again.”

_Oh._

“Sherlock,” John said, pulling him down gently and nudging him a little closer. “I’m not leaving. I don’t plan on dying any time soon. But I--” Might as well say it. _Courage, Watson._ “Before I met you, I was--well, I didn’t get that gun so I could shoot criminals.” _Please, Sherlock,_ he thought. _Please don’t make me say the rest._

“Oh,” Sherlock said. “John…”

“I don’t want to, anymore,” John added quickly, unable to bear that tone in Sherlock’s voice. “I haven’t wanted to, not since that first case. But I would, for you.”

“John,” Sherlock repeated, on a long exhale, and suddenly John couldn’t stand even the small distance between them. He’d move away again in a moment, he’d give Sherlock his space, but just for a second, just for a second he needed to know that Sherlock was warm and solid and _there_. He rolled closer, slid his hand up Sherlock’s arm to rest lightly on his neck, his cheek, and then to tangle gently in his curls. Just for a moment they’d breath the same air and then he’d turn away, and it would be fine, it would be fine, and even if it broke his heart it would be worth it. Just for a moment.

But Sherlock didn’t let him turn away. Sherlock snaked a long arm around his waist and pulled him closer, until John’s head was tucked under Sherlock’s chin, until John’s lips were all but pressed to the vee of bare skin in the open collar of his shirt. Sherlock smelled like scotch and soap and _home_ , and his body curved warm and solid against John’s. It seemed necessary, then, to press a gentle kiss to that small patch of exposed skin, and to do it again at the sound of Sherlock’s breath hitching in his chest. Emboldened, John tilted his head a little and parted his lips to let his teeth scrape across Sherlock’s clavicle.

John barely had time to process Sherlock’s soft shuddering gasp and the shiver that ran through his body before Sherlock tugged John up towards him, curving his own body down until they were face-to-face, and then Sherlock’s lips were on his, hot and soft. John felt all the tension leave his muscles as he sighed into the kiss. He’d shared quite a few first kisses in his life, but none like this--none that felt like safety, none that tasted like coming home. This, finally, was real. With the first nip of Sherlock’s teeth at his lower lip, the strange alien fog that blanketed the evening lifted, and everything settled back into sharp clarity. The taste of whiskey on his tongue, the scrape of stubble on his neck, the sound of Sherlock’s soft panting breaths in his ears: finally, finally the evidence of his senses cohered again.

The dark of the bedroom made it impossible to count the time with anything but their drumming hearts and gasping breaths. John could not say, later, how long they spent just learning the taste of each other. He ran a hand down Sherlock’s back, relishing the long sweeping curve of it, memorizing the bumps of the vertebrae under his fingers. Sherlock splayed one hand over John’s hip and let his thumb rest on the little gap where John’s t-shirt had ridden up--one tiny point of bare skin against bare skin, but the heat of it ricocheted through John’s veins.

John threaded one hand into Sherlock’s hair, letting the curls twist around his fingers, thrilling in the way Sherlock seemed to melt, all eager hands and shifting muscle. John gave his hair a light, experimental tug, and Sherlock rewarded him a gasp of pleasure that flashed through him like lightning.

And with that, everything became more urgent. Sherlock writhed against him, deepening the kiss, and slid his hand from John’s hip to his arse. The hard line of Sherlock’s erection pressed into John’s thigh, and he slipped one leg between Sherlock’s in response, slotting them even closer together.

Sherlock moaned and rolled onto his back, pulling John on top of him and bracketing him between spread thighs. And Christ, if _that_ wasn’t something John had been fantasizing about for months. He rolled his hips, just for the sound it pulled from Sherlock’s lips, just to see the way Sherlock tipped his head back, exposing the long pale expanse of his throat.

“Oh, God, that’s perfect,” John breathed. He had licked and marked that throat far too many times in his dreams to resist now. He bent his head to kiss a line down Sherlock’s neck before nipping at the junction of neck and shoulder. Sherlock bucked up against him, hands pushing at John’s t-shirt, and yes, why hadn’t he gotten rid of that already? John sat up and yanked it over his head in one smooth motion, before reaching down to help Sherlock with his own buttons.

In the dim light of the room, Sherlock’s pale skin seemed to glow, and John ran his hands down Sherlock’s chest slowly, reverently. He’d seen Sherlock shirtless before, seen and discreetly admired him, but everything was different now that he was allowed to look, and even better, to touch. He brushed a thumb over one of Sherlock’s nipples, experimentally, and grinned at the way Sherlock shivered. He did it again, a little harder, and Sherlock nearly whined.

“John, stop _teasing_.”

John just grinned wider and sat back. How could he not, with Sherlock spread out beneath him, warm and flushed and squirming against him? “Have a little patience.”

“Patience,” Sherlock said, surging upwards and pushing John onto his back, “is boring.” He kissed John hard, nipping at his lower lip, bearing him down into the mattress. John arched against him, curling one hand into the hair at his nape, and sliding the other down his back to curve around his arse. God, what a thrill to finally do that, after months of trailing behind him and trying not to gape at the wonders that good tailoring wrought on Sherlock’s already excellent physique.

“You’ve been wanting to do that,” Sherlock said, his voice a dark rumble against John’s neck.

“Mmm, I have,” he admitted. “Those trousers you wear, _Jesus_.” He squeezed again, with both hands this time, to emphasize his point. “Take them off.”

“ _Yes,_ ” Sherlock said, as though he’d forgotten that was a possibility. He scrambled upright, fingers fumbling over the button and zip, before sliding them down, sleek black pants and all, and tossing them over the side of the bed. He sat back on his heels and raised one imperious eyebrow at John. “Well? Aren’t you going to take yours off? I deduced your penis size months ago, so if that’s what you’re worried about, you needn’t be.”

Well. It wasn’t as though John was ever going to _forget_ that he was in bed with Sherlock Holmes.

Aware that he was blushing, John shoved his sleep pants down and kicked them aside. “Sorry,” he said. “I got distracted by the view.” And it was a magnificent view: Sherlock, it turned out, was long and lean _everywhere_ \--long and lean and clearly very interested in the proceedings. John’s mouth watered at the sight of Sherlock’s cock, flushed and hard against his belly, already damp at the tip. “Christ, Sherlock,” he said, not even trying to keep the desire out of his voice. “You’re fucking-- god, you’re fucking gorgeous.”

He pushed Sherlock back against the mattress, stretching out on top of him and shivering at the exquisite sensation of bare skin against bare skin. Sherlock undulated against him, running his hands down John’s back, letting his nails scrape lightly across his shoulder blades. Sherlock’s cock pressed against John’s stomach, and oh, god, if Sherlock didn’t stop squirming like that (and making those _noises_ , _Christ_ ) John was going to come with the all the speed and finesse of a teenager.

He pushed himself back up, determined to make this last longer than three minutes. He’d been dreaming about this for months and now that it was finally happening, he wanted something more than a quick desperate rut. Sherlock made a wordless noise of protest and pulled at his shoulders, but John shrugged him off and pinned him back down to the bed with a hand on his chest.

“Wait, Sherlock,” he said, drawing a deep breath. “Wait, I--” His eyes drifted from Sherlock’s face to his cock, blood-hot and hard and absolutely irresistible. “Let me suck you? Please?”

Sherlock’s eyes widened for a moment and then fluttered shut. Now that his eyes had adjusted to the dark, John could just make out the rosy flush staining his cheeks and spreading down his neck and chest. “Yes,” he whispered, barely audible but unhesitating.

John smiled--he couldn’t _stop_ smiling, it seemed. Because despite all the horrors of the evening, here was Sherlock, in his bed, naked and gorgeous and staring up at him with unvarnished hunger in his shifting silver eyes. John spent one more moment drinking it in, and then lowered himself to slide down Sherlock’s body.

Despite Sherlock’s clear eagerness--hell, despite John’s own eagerness--John forced himself to take his time as he worked his way toward Sherlock’s cock. So much uncharted territory, so many wonders to discover. For instance: Sherlock’s right nipple was more sensitive than his left, but the flick of a tongue over either made his breath catch and his hips hitch up helplessly. Repeating the action--this time with one hand threaded into his hair, tugging gently--had him gasping, all coherence gone.

With one last nip at the lower curve of his pectoral, John began kissing his way down Sherlock’s stomach--nearly concave, now that he was lying down, but surprisingly firm for all that. (John refused to be jealous. If he ate like Sherlock did--which was to say, as little as possible, and with a blithe disregard for trivialities like “food groups”--he’d have a flat stomach, too. Not worth it.) He inhaled deeply as he moved further south, following the trail of dark hair that led down from his navel. (A ticklish spot, John discovered, and one he knew he’d be unable to resist exploiting in the future.) Sherlock smelled… clean. Like soap and smoke and salty skin--nothing at all like the chlorine that had burned John’s nostrils earlier in the evening. John inhaled again, nuzzling into the thicker hair at Sherlock’s groin, relishing the heated nudge of Sherlock’s cock against his cheek.

“John, _please_ ,” Sherlock whispered above him, sounding wrecked already. He untangled one hand from the sheets and moved it to John’s head, not pushing, just stroking lightly, teasing the strands between his fingertips.

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say ‘please’ before,” John said, looking up at him and laughing. And then he bent his head and licked a long slow stripe up Sherlock’s cock, and laughed again in pure delight at the way Sherlock gasped.

“ _John_ ,” Sherlock said, in a tone approaching wonder, and John didn’t think he would ever get tired of hearing Sherlock say his name. One simple syllable, but in Sherlock’s mouth it gained a thousand new inflections. Encouraged, John lowered his head again and let his lips slide over Sherlock’s cock, now flushed a deep red and leaking copiously. Sherlock’s hips jerked involuntarily as John flicked his tongue against the sensitive spot just beneath the head. In response, he moved one hand to brace against Sherlock’s hips and let the other continue its explorations. The flex of muscles under smooth skin, the dusting of coarse curling hairs, the pounding pulse--a myriad of competing sensations that sent shivers up John’s spine. It wasn’t his first time in bed with a man, but it was his first time in bed with _Sherlock_ , and that alone made everything thrilling and new again.

Beneath him, Sherlock’s breath came faster and rougher, and he babbled his pleasure in stammering half-sentences sentences and soft broken moans. John’s cock was so hard it ached--God, the way Sherlock _tasted_ \--and he found himself thrusting unconsciously against the mattress, desperate for friction.

He slipped his free hand down to curve beneath Sherlock’s arse, digging his fingers into the firm flesh and angling Sherlock’s hips up at the same time he swallowed around him, taking his cock as deep as he could.

“JohnJohn _John_ ,” Sherlock chanted, his fingers scrabbling frantically against John’s short hair. “I’m--I’m close, I’m-- oh, _fuck_ , I’m--”

John hummed around him, wordlessly encouraging, and slipped his other hand down to cup Sherlock’s balls, now drawn up tight against his body. He let his hand drift further back, stroking one finger gently along Sherlock’s perineum, and that was all it took. One more drawn-out, shuddering moan and Sherlock was pulsing in his mouth, hot and bitter and _oh god so perfect_ against John’s throat. John couldn’t hold back his answering moan as he swallowed one last time, his senses overwhelmed by the taste of Sherlock’s orgasm, the way his cock throbbed against his tongue, his soft spent gasps and twitching muscles. Sherlock shivered against him as he pulled off, then hooked a hand around John’s elbow and dragged him up for another kiss. John licked into his mouth eagerly, relishing the languid movement of Sherlock’s body beneath his, on fire with the knowledge that Sherlock could taste himself on John’s tongue.

Sherlock nipped once more at John’s lower lip before breaking the kiss. “Come here,” he said, voice gone rough and lazy with pleasure. He tugged John a little further up the bed, then brought one long-fingered hand to his mouth and licked very slowly up his palm, never breaking eye contact. John just stared, transfixed by the sight of Sherlock’s pink tongue working between his fingers. Finally, Sherlock lowered his hand, and although he knew what was coming, John still found himself whimpering at the first touch of Sherlock’s hand to his cock.

“This won’t-- _oh_ \--this won’t take long,” John said, as Sherlock’s hand moved over him. He let his head fall back to the pillow, sighing as Sherlock kissed down the length of his throat before biting down gently on his shoulder. “Mmm, harder. You can leave a--a mark, _please_.” He felt Sherlock’s lips spread into a smile against his skin before he bit down harder, sending shockwaves of pleasure skittering along John’s nerves.

“You feel amazing,” Sherlock whispered into his neck, between kisses.

“Isn’t that--mm, isn’t that my line?” John said. As much as he wanted to hold on, to make this go on forever, he could feeling the beginnings of his orgasm building low in his belly. He thrust up into Sherlock’s fist, unable to help himself.

“I’ve been thinking about this for months,” Sherlock continued, his lips skimming over John’s skin as he spoke, and _oh god_ , John could feel the rumble of his baritone all the way down to his toes. “Ever since that first dinner at Angelo’s.”

“You turned me down!” John said, momentarily distracted from the sparks that raced down his spine with every movement of Sherlock’s hand.

“I regretted it,” Sherlock said. “Almost immediately. I thought I could ignore it, but I have found--” another nip along John’s throat, another soft kiss-- “that you are _impossible_ to ignore.” He caught John’s mouth with his own again and then John was coming, in a rush of heat and pleasure that left him boneless and gasping into Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock pulled him close and held him through it, and as John relaxed against Sherlock’s chest he could feel the slow steady drum of Sherlock’s heart echoing his own.

“That was… mmm,” John murmured, sleepy and sated and utterly content to lounge against Sherlock for the rest of his natural life. Or at least until the sweat and come splattered across their stomachs drove one of them out of bed in search of a flannel.

“‘Mmm’ indeed,” Sherlock said, his voice still rich and molasses-slow.

“We should do that again sometime,” John continued, keeping his voice light, trying not to let all his desperate hopes bleed through.

Sherlock made a soft noise in the back of his throat. “Obviously.” He leaned over just enough to scoop up one of his socks and give them both a cursory wipe-down before he settled back against the pillows and tightened his arms around John.

For his part, John was caught somewhere between delicious post-coital lassitude and a reeling sense of wonder at all this newfound _knowledge_. Sherlock cuddled after sex. Sherlock _had_ sex. Sherlock had sex _with him_. Was this how Sherlock felt, rearranging all the furniture in his mind palace after a particularly stunning revelation?

He huffed out a soft laugh at that thought, then turned his head just enough to press a kiss to Sherlock’s chest, just over his heart, still real and present and beating steadily despite all his protests to the contrary.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Alter for the beta!
> 
> I frickin' love post-pool fics, even two seasons later, so I thought I'd write a post-pool fic, not to mention something with considerably less ANGST and FEEEEEEELINGS and ARTSY PRETENSION and whatever else I've been wallowing in lately. I hope I have met with success.
> 
> The title is from "I Can See the Pines are Dancing" by A.A. Bondy.
> 
> those who are so inclined can follow me on tumblr: onethousandhurrahs.tumblr.com, your one-stop shop for reblogged Potterlock and yelling about writing.


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